


By the River’s Dark

by nirvhannahcornell



Series: You Have Loved Enough [3]
Category: Metallica, Nine Inch Nails (Band), Soundgarden (Band)
Genre: Dark Romance, Earthquakes, F/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, One Shot, Romance, Short One Shot, imagine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-06
Updated: 2019-07-06
Packaged: 2020-06-23 15:36:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19704340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nirvhannahcornell/pseuds/nirvhannahcornell
Summary: Picture this, dear reader: Trent and Kim have dropped you off near the Golden Gate Bridge for unknown reasons, and Lars is there with something in hopes of enticing you. But then something happens to bring you unintentionally closer than planned.





	By the River’s Dark

**Author's Note:**

> I live about forty miles from the epicenters of the Ridgecrest earthquakes. The past two days have been horrifying from the low, continual shaking that comes up out of nowhere. The good news, though, is when the larger of the two happened, I pictured Lars next to me comforting me. Enjoy 💜

It’s nearly midnight and you were asked to come out here to the park near the Golden Gate Bridge wearing your best black clothing for him. Trent and Kim had taken you to the Bay Area over the course of the next day. But neither of them elaborated why you were brought here in the first place.  
The former was not kidding when he said the fog would bank around the outskirts of the park: you look out to the west at the sight of the wispy fog clouds collecting about the bases of the bridge. A street lamp behind you clicks on, bathing the street and the sidewalk in soft orange light. The grass underneath you smells fresh, as if it had just been clipped that day. The sky overhead is inky black penetrated with those glimmering stars.  
You cannot get that image out of your mind, the image of Trent and Kim bailing you out of your wedding ceremony, and Dan chasing after all of you. All feels calm for the time being, and now here you are waiting for someone, or something to happen. You stand there underneath an dark oak tree with scraggly branches and full grown leaves, all of which hang silent against the quiet and the darkness.  
“Hey,” a voice behind you says. You turn your head and there he is, walking towards you with something tucked under his arm. He wears a black leather jacket and an Anthrax shirt, and his disheveled hair hangs over his shoulders. His face is round and milky, much like the full moon: the glow from the street lamps makes him resemble a corpse.  
“Hi,” you answer him, somewhat confused.  
“Did Trent and Kim bring you here?” he asks you in a gentle voice: he speaks with an odd accent, one exotic to California.  
“They did. May I ask who you are?”  
“Call me Lars.”  
“Lars... okay.” You feel a little smile cross your face, albeit a nervous one given you don’t know what to think or expect of this boy.  
“What you got there?” You point at the thing under his arm.  
“This is just a journal.” He shows you the object, a black leather bound book with a plain front but faded silver gilding along the spine. “They told me to bring something to entertain the two of us with.” He reaches into his jacket pocket for something, and shows you a black ballpoint pen. He shows you a quaint smile, one that both comforts you as well as intrigue you.  
“How does a little poetry inspired by the stillness around us sound?”  
“Sounds... lovely?” you stammer, reluctant on what to say. What gives? You have just met this boy and now he’s offering to write you something in the ghostly light by the water. He beckons you to take a seat with him on the grass: you look over his shoulder as he turns to a clean page in the journal. The interior smells fresh, as if the journal had come hot off of the press.  
He clicks his pen and begins to write, using the light of the street lamps. You read the first few words, but it takes you a second to realize they are not English.  
“What language is that?” you ask him. He turns his head, his cheekbones full and round from his Mona Lisa smile.  
“I thought you would never ask—it’s Danish, my sweet.”  
He runs his tongue along the top of his bottom lip and hangs closer to your face: his hair smells clean and soft, and his skin carries a gentle musk.  
“I should tell you—” He stops, and turns his head back to his right. You follow his gaze to the grass and the river’s edge before the two of you. The water sloshes about something is shaking it. The grass underneath you begins to gyrate, a gentle steady movement right beneath the seat of your pants.  
“Oh, hell no,” he breathes out; he puts his arm around you. The ground moves in a rolling motion like incoming waves, each one harder and harder with each one.  
“Oh, Jesus,” you gasp.  
“Hold onto me,” he encourages you in a hushed voice. He brings his face closer to yours: you out your arm around his waist to hold onto his waist. Underneath the cloth of his shirt, you feel a soft pocket of flesh over his hip. As the ground shakes more and more, a steady continuous roll, you tighten your grip on him even more.  
You gaze into those green irises and the round, full shape of his face, accentuated by the glow of the street lamps. Just a sweet boy with a little soft tummy and a soft heart. You feel him hold onto you for dear life as the shaking persists, growing stronger and stronger until you swear you both are riding the shaft of the earth. The river water before you splashes onto the grass: some of it flies over your head and shoulders. The leaves on the tree behind you rustle and rattle, and you wonder if a branch is going to fall on your heads.  
The shaking seems to last forever. You bow your head into his chest and close your eyes, and relish his softness. You are a soft but solid moment against a violent backdrop.  
Where the build up was steady to a hard climax, the shaking drops off and wanes almost at a drop of a hat. You lift your head right as the river before the two of you calms down and keeps back the overflow. You turn to him and his head bowed right next to you. Even in the glow from the street, you make out a look of sheer terror in his eyes.  
“Are you okay?” he asks you, his voice trembling.  
“Yeah... I hope there isn’t an aftershock, though.”  
“Me, neither.” He glances back again right as the breeze picks up around you. He turns back with his eyebrows knitted together.  
“I wanna take you home,” he confesses. “I want to take you with me to my humble home in El Cerrito and love you.”  
You open your mouth to speak, but no sound emerges. This is all so soon and yet you know he’s afraid: that felt like the biggest quake to hit California in a long time. You lift your hand so as to push his hair off of his neck. He brings his lips close to yours, and he touches the side of your face.  
“Will you come home with me?” he whispers to you.  
Kim’s truck bounds up to the curb behind you, and Trent barrels out of the front seat and onto the sidewalk.  
“Quick! Quick! Get in! Get in!”  
You turn back to him huddled right next to you, his body soft and his lips beckoning you for a kiss, the two of you brought together by a powerful, emotionally intense event.  
“drøm om mig,” he whispers to you.  
“I want to know,” you whisper back and give him a soft, light kiss on his lips. You let go of each other and you run back to Trent and Kim. You run over a slight depression in the grass: a fissure! You turn around to see him standing to his feet and walking along the edge of the river with his journal under his arm. You only knew him for a few moments but it took the earth to shake for you to feel him by the river’s dark.


End file.
